In Need of Assistance
by krystin.alexander19
Summary: What happens when a young woman gets to be One Direction's personal assistant because of random happenstance? Will she ever get over her feud with Louis? Will she ever get to be her again after a haunting and terrible past? Who is stalking her? Will she run away or stay and fight for what she wants - for what she could finally have?
1. Not So New Beginnings

**Disclaimer: I only own my OC's. Everyone else (with names) are all legit people that I sadly do not own...**

**This is my first story. I am trying to get into this whole fanfiction thing. It's difficult, but luckily I have a great friend to help me through the horrible process of thinking.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

I look at my watch and sigh.

It's almost 8 am.

As in the time when people are usually awake. But me? I'm usually sleeping. I might even be sleeping right now, who knows; to the world it may look like I am bright-eyed and bushy-tailed but in reality… I am probably sleepwalking. I just got off a 7-hour flight. I'm dead to the world. Shoot me now. Just get this whole day over with. I'm begging!

I trudge up to the doors of the widely known record company, duffel bag over my shoulder, dressed to impress. Job interviews are terrifying; especially when you have to talk to the infamous Simon Cowell. He pulls no punches when it comes to speaking his mind. In fact, I'm pretty sure he gets off on other people's pain.

I step up to the elevators, pushing the up button, tapping my foot nervously. A few other people step up behind me, the doors open and we all walk in. I press the button for the top floor. Because naturally that is where the head-honcho would reside, right? Nobody else presses another button. And that freaks me out.

Discreetly I scan my competition. Why else would all these people be headed to the same floor, at the same time? We're all gunning for the same job. Great. That chick? The one with the mini pencil skirt and flowy shirt and blazer. The one wearing the six-inch heels? She is definitely getting this job. There is no way someone like me, in simple black skinny jeans, a normal button up shirt and a blazer with _flats_ will get picked over her. Guys just don't go for the simple things. They don't go for plain. They want flashy and sexy. Of which I am not.

But, surprisingly, when we get to the floor, I am the only one to stop at the receptionist desk. The other people all disperse into different halls and rooms. _Wait, I'm the only one here right now? Oh crap. Am I late? Did they fill the position already? Greeaaat…_

"Hello there!" A bright, sunny and southern voice greets me. A way too perky voice for this early, might I add.

"Um, hi," I look at her name tag, "Tammy, I'm here for a job interview with Simon at 8:10? My name is Jane Smith," I offer.

"Welcome Jane!" She exclaimed, as if her saying it as happy as she can will lift my spirits. But I am positive that someone else has already gotten the job. Why else would there be no one else around? The waiting room is empty… "He is almost ready for you; you can wait over there in one of those seats and I will call you up once he gives me the go-ahead," she grins as big as her face will let her. I don't know if you have seen anyone's face stretch to the max. It's quite a sight. I smile back as well as I can, considering. Why are they even bothering to wait? Why not just tell me here and now that I'm not needed? I suppress a large and loud sigh. And I wait.

Three minutes later I hear her drawl out, "He's ready for you now! If you follow this hall on your left all the way down to the door that has his name, knock twice, and then walk in," another cheek ripping smile. As I start off towards the door, having to double back because I almost forgot my bag, I think that this might just be natural for her? Like it wasn't a fake looking smile, it wasn't a grimace. Those were real smiles, just huge ones. What a weirdo.

I follow her instructions to the T. And when I open the door to his ginormous office? He's not there…

I pause. Then backtrack. I walk up and down the hall, twice, making sure that I didn't miss like his name anywhere else. But there is none. I walk back to his office and slowly step in, confused.

I let the door close behind me and I scan the office, looking for hidden cameras or maybe someone to pop out of a hidden door wearing a dolphin costume? That has happened to me before! Scouts honor.

I stroll over to one of the chairs on this side of his desk – guest chairs? Setting my bag down below me, I slowly plop down. And then I wait.

I stare at the clock, zoning out. When I finally shake myself out of my trance, I notice half an hour has gone by. I sit there in quiet shock. Well okay then? If someone had come in, talked to me, I would have noticed. No one had. A whole half-hour. Alone. In Simon Cowell's office…

_Did they forget about me?_ I question, nervous. _No, how could anyone forget that they sent a 20-year-old girl into Mr. Cowell's office?_ Then a thought occurs to me. _They totally think we're hooking up right now! Oh! Nasty! Sick! He's old and decrepit! And old!_ Seriously the nerve of some people…

Although, I can't go now. I haven't even gotten to talk to anyone! Geez. All I wanted to do was be an assistant to Olly Murs. I mean, his voice. His face… He's amazing. Or better yet, Little Mix. They look super fun. And they're all girls. So like super bonus. Boys are dumb. Who needs boys? Not me! _Seriously, how long will I have to wait?_

I get my answer another hour later.

**The** Simon Cowell walks into his office.

He's not alone. A man, (his assistant?) who couldn't be too much older than me trails behind. And they just saunter in as if they didn't make me wait a whole hour, in Simon's office, just to speak with him. I'm annoyed, but I stand up eagerly ready to shake his hand. I mean this is Simon Cowell! A huge name, not just in Europe, but everywhere. They walk right past me and straight to his desk, Simon sitting down and the other man stands at attention right next to him.

"Hello Jane," he states in his pretentious accent and his pretentious clothes and his pretentious name. I put a look of innocence on my face – who wants to get kicked out of Syco Records for sassing the man who owns it? With a look only someone who is self-obsessed can have, he announces, "I am Simon Cowell."

I nod, getting ready to express how excited I am for this opportunity to meet him and work for a big name artist but his assistant hands him the folder he'd been hugging to his chest not acknowledging me at all. "Congratulations! You passed our little test!" Mr. Cowell exclaims in fake bright voice, not looking at me. His eyes are scanning the folder that he holds in his lap.

I blink. "Excuse me?"

He elaborates, still not even glancing up for a moment, "You can actually work for us now." This doesn't do anything to diminish my confusion. I stare at him blankly.

He looks ready to continue onto the next topic but I interrupt before he can get anything else out. "Woah, w_oah._ **_WOAH!_**" He pauses, finally looking up. "What test?"

"The waiting one?" He responds slowly, as if I'm an idiot.

"The waiting… one…" I said slowly. The dots not really connecting.

"Yes," he enunciates, already done with my slowness. "We made you wait an hour, like we do to everyone we are about to hire," my ears perk up, _about to hire?_ Not interviewing. Not turning away. _Oh my gosh! I'm about to get hired!_ "to see if they can handle the wait, if they want this that bad that they would wait an obnoxious amount of time. The time is different for everyone. If they look put together and ready for the day, we make them wait two to three hours. If they look tired, like you do we make them wait a half hour, or a whole hour. Honestly we all thought that you would skip out after twenty minutes…" He confessed, not guilty at all. I scoffed; they had no idea how long I could wait. I could've waited all day in his office. Not touching anything. Not getting angry. Just waiting.

I raise an eyebrow, but lower it quickly – he just said he was about to hire me, he even sounded impressed that I'd lasted as long as I did – I don't need to get sent away (fired?) before I'd even started. "Well thank you?" I ask, not sure of how exactly to respond to this news.

He pushes the folder, twisting it, towards me so I can actually see it. They're application thingies. The ones where you fill out your address and number and emergency contact and your social security number. And forms? Like legal ones. To sign. Like hush money type of forms… He explains to me that this is when I sign in order to be held legally responsible if I break any of their rules. _Like JAIL?!_ I think, horrified. Externally, though, I nod and affirm that I understand.

"Wait. So I'm legit hired? This is it? No interview?"

"No interview," he nods. Ummm? But what if I was a serial killer? They would just hire me? Right off the bat? Or a crazy fan that would kidnap the artist and hold them captive? There had to be more.

"What's the catch?" I narrow my eyes, suspicious.

"The only catch is that you have to be completely and utterly devoted to the artist. You have to give up your life for them. They are now your life. If you can handle it the job is yours. If not. You will walk away right now." I think about this for a moment. I need a distraction in my life. But would I be able to handle being some diva's slave?

"I can do this." I nod, ready to sign my life away. He hands me a pen, and I sign the papers. All of them. I have to look up my own address and cell phone number. I haven't even had it for a whole day yet, so who could blame me? I slide the folder back towards him.

"Okay, Jane. You will be working with…" he pauses, for dramatic effect I'm sure, "One Direction!" Just one degree of hullabaloo more, and he would have thrown up jazz hands and confetti would have rained down.

I hesitate, but only for a moment. "Oh, cool!" May I just say? Faking excitement is easy for me. I am a good actress. Maybe not with memorizing scripts but with not letting people see what I'm really thinking? I should win an Oscar. I grin, "Wow! Oh my gosh! Like One Direction, One Direction? Oh my gosh!" I gush for another minute about how excited I am and what an awesome opportunity this is… It's not that I don't like One Direction. They're okay. I'm just not absolutely and insanely in love with them. I have a few of their songs, but no merchandise. And I don't know every detail of their lives. Like I said they're okay.

"When do I start?" I practically bounce out of my seat, seemingly ready to get right to it.

"Now. Just follow Mark. He will take you to get your badge so you can walk around freely in the building and then he will show you where the boys are. Their tour manager, Paul will tell you all you be doing for them."

Nodding, I grab my bag and stand ready to go in search for this elusive "Mark". The assistant gives Simon an incredulous stare – oh so _this _is Mark, although that should have been obvious – as if he had something much better to do than show little ole' me around? I resist rolling my eyes. Great, another pretentious British man; how many of them can there be?

Simon hands him the folder back, and eventually Mark huffs and starts stalking out of the office. This time I do roll my eyes. What a baby. I follow him down the hall back to the elevators. He pushes the down button, and we step in once the doors open. Tammy waves at me enthusiastically and I smile and wave back right before the doors shut. Mark sighs again while pressing the button for the floor two below us. And I ignore him. He had no power over me to control how I feel about this situation.

Which, for the record, I am over the moon about! I just got hired to be One Direction's _personal assistant_. Suck on that fangirls.

We step out of the elevator and into another waiting area with another obnoxiously happy receptionist. We walk right by her without even saying a hello. We head down the right hallway and into room 606. The security office. Like with mall cops but not mall cops. Like huge burly dudes that could snap me in half. There are four of them. Oh goody goody gumdrops! I glance at the room, seeing half of it dedicated to screens and seating area. The other half is little jail cells… That's not awkward at all? I then turn to my left, and see that a small corner of the room is dedicated to taking pictures for what I'm assuming is the badges?

"Good morning boys!" Never mind, not British, I repeat: not British. That is… Russian? "This here is plain Jane." He introduces me. Sometimes I need a hardy reminder that it's illegal to kill someone. This would be one of those times.

"Aww come on Mark! Don't be like that! She's standing right there." One of the boulders half stands up for me.

"No really that's her name. Jane Smith. She is One Direction's newest assistant," came his ominous explanation. They all look disbelieving at me, although whether it has to do with being their assistant or with my really common name I can't tell. Mark hands them my paperwork and a second folder with all my background information in it.

After they get confirmation that I am who I say I am they look through my duffel bag. Giving me questioning looks as to why I have a bag full of clothes and toiletries. "I moved here today." I explain, "As in my airplane landed at 7:20 am. As in I haven't even gotten to go to my brand-new apartment yet and drop this stuff off. Or eat…" I trail off. This causes half of them to look at me with surprise, and the other half to glare at Mark.

I get ushered over to have my picture taken. And then not even a minute later my ID card is printed out and handed to me in a lanyard. "This will get you into anything that relates to the boys. If you leave a concert or event to get something for one of them, this will get you back inside instantly." I nod to show my understanding. "Do not lose this." Mark threatens, "This one is free. The next one you pay 50 pounds." My eyes go wide and I promise him I won't ever lose it. He just shakes his head, not believing me. Why should he? We've only known each other for a few minutes.

I put my ID on and look back at Mark putting on my best innocent puppy face. He glowered at me. Pssh. Deal with it pussy. I mean what? Who said that mean thing?

Mark strides down the _other_ hallway and stops in front of room 612.

And then he walks away.

He doesn't even say anything! He just leads me to this random room and walks away, not telling me to wait here for a moment. Or go ahead and knock. Or anything! What do I do?

I took the most logical course of action: I entered the room. Without knocking. Big mistake on my part. For future reference always knock! And yell out, "Housekeeping!" in your legit voice. For example my voice is closer to Kristen Bell than Kristen Stewart and I have a Chicago accent. But if you were a dude and British and are a part of the band you shout housekeeping in order to inform your band that you are entering the premises.

I open the door, and barely take one step inside the actual room before I get attacked.

My face meets two cans of silly string and the entirety of a large water gun.

* * *

**I hope you liked it - I will be posting more chapters regardless of how many people read it or review.**

**Thank you so much for taking time out of your lovely day to read my story!**


	2. Shocker, Look At How Shocked I Am

**Disclaimer: I only own my OC's. Everyone else (with names) are all legit people that I sadly do not own...**

**This is the second chapter of my first story. I'm just a little nervous to see how it's going. I think it's great. But I don't know if _others_ think it will be great too so if you could review that's be awesome!_  
_**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

The shocked looks on the four boys' faces were nothing – I repeat, _nothing_ – in comparison to mine. First of all, I don't even know them. Secondly, I… I don't even know what to say. I can't believe they would just attack a completely innocent girl like that! Good Lord!

The tallest of the group (Harry?) stood up from behind a spinney-chair and quickly hid the silly string behind his back. In a deep British accent he slowly states the obvious: "You're not Liam."

I stood in complete silence, just staring at them. And they stared at me. As in they were checking me out. Which confuses me; like I'm not exactly the Hunchback of Notre Dame, but I'm no Victoria Secret model. The blond one with brown roots started laughing before I could even think to look down and see why they were staring like that. He was full on can't-breathe-its-so-uncontrollable laughing. Zayn (I knew his name because he is dating Perrie from Little Mix) averted his eyes to my right, as if embarrassed? And the last one with longish swooping hair and a random deer on his arm smirked at me. He had the stinking audacity to **smirk**. It's official. That boy is D-E-A-D. Dead. I am going to finish him like a cheesecake, get it? Get it? *Insert resigned sigh.* I then look down and notice that you can see my bra – the black one – through my white shirt. Usually it's not a problem. The material is so thick that you don't need an undershirt or to wear a skin colored bra. But when wet? This is a whole different story. It was all visible.

"Well then. Um… Wow! Awesome sauce. If you'll excuse me…" I mutter, turning around in order to go to the bathroom that I remember seeing near the reception desk and almost bump into someone. A guy a little bit taller than me and with a buzz cut.

"What happened to you?!" He demands, already looking angry.

I raise an eyebrow, "Something that the tall curly-haired one said was meant for someone, I'm assuming you?" I walk away, before my mouth could get the better of me, not waiting for an apology or an explanation.

Rushing into the bathroom, I start taking off my sopping wet clothes and _ruined shoes_ and put on clean and dry ones. I then take off my running makeup and reapply it. Frowning at my mirror self, I whisper, "I'm screwed aren't I?" As if the reflection could actually talk back? Pshh.

"Yeah, yeah you are," a very British and girly voice echoes through the restroom. I jump in fright, staring at my own eyes before quickly turning around to see the intruder. It's the receptionist on this floor. Her nametag says Sam. She giggles, "Sorry! I didn't think you'd be that jittery." I don't say anything. What is there to say? She continues, "Those little monsters aren't known for their kindness towards assistants…"

Finally I ask, "Is that why Mark had said 'newest assistant' as if I was a new victim?" Sam nods and I turn back towards 2D copy. _Great. I really am screwed._ "I already signed away my life to these guys! I made a deal with the devil." I sigh while shaking my head. I made a promise. I signed a contract. I will go through with this. I will not back down until my job is done. _I hope._

"Wow, that was quick," Sam comments. I look at her through the mirror, locking eyes, asking a silent question. "How long it took you to resolve to this job. It usually takes people at least a week. And it's only because they remembered the contract. Remembered that they can't just walk away from this."

Nodding, I turn towards her, "I know we don't know each other…" I pause, and she nods in encouragement, "but do you think I can do it? Out of all the assistants you've seen come and go? Do I look like I have the strength to power through this?"

A huge grin lights up her dark face. "Out of all the assistants I've seen? You; you will definitely be fine. You are strong. I can see it in your eyes. In the way you hold your shoulders. You will end up being just fine." A light promise. But it made me feel better anyway. I shove all my messy clothes into a grocery baggie and put it in my duffel bag, making a mental note to wash it when I get home. Oh wait. I can't. I don't have anything to wash it with. I make another mental note to go shopping once I'm done here. "So I know we just met, but I have a feeling we're going to be great mates," my eyes go wide at 'mates' and Sam giggles, "like friends, not _mates_."

"Oh! I was a little worried there for a second," I smirk and wink at this new... Mate, of mine.

"Here's my cell, just ring whenever you need something yeah?" She hands me a little business card with her name and number and position at the company. Oh... I see how it is, she's not just a receptionist. She's an executive assitant. Although I really don't know how that could be so much better? Or what that is?

I nod and smile warmly at her, but then frown when I remember that I have to go back into Hell and actually have a conversation with the devils…

I prepare myself, steeling my emotions, before heading into the hallway. And from all the way down here, I can hear yelling. Not the words just muffled shouts, that must be Paul – as an actual adult he shouldn't be okay with such behavior from these boys so close to being men. The closer I get to the door, the louder and clearer it gets. I look back at Sam who is standing at the end of the hall and mouth, "What do I do?" She doesn't answer, just gives me a double-thumbs-up and goes back to her desk. Oh. Thanks. So helpful. Emptying my face of emotions, I do a little jump-air-punch combination thing. Like boxers do. It doesn't help, at all.

Taking a deep breath, I step to the right side of the door. This is so that I can open the door but not get potentially dirty or wet again. Yes, that's right I, Jane Smith am learning from my mistakes. Always knock. So I do. I knock five times: one for each of my new enemies. Well, technically co-workers; they're employed by Syco Music… I'm employed by Syco Music… Yep. We're totally co-workers.

The yelling stops, and then a hesitant, "Yes?" comes from the other side of the door.

"Is it safe to come back in?" I quiz the bodiless voice.

The door swings open. And there is Liam, the intended target. He raises an eyebrow when he sees that I am wearing a whole new outfit, one considerably less dress-to-impress and more comfy-airplane-ride. We stand there, silently watching each other for a while before I finally couldn't wait anymore, "Can I come in?" I ask, not unkindly.

"Oh, yeah!" He immediately moves out of the way so I can walk past him and into the room. The other four guys are lounging at the long meeting table. Paul isn't in here though. So maybe it was Liam chewing them out?

"Well that was fun," I mumble.

I start to head over towards the head of the table to plop down, because they were all sitting at the other side. But an already irritating voice interrupts me, demanding, "What do you think you're doing?"

I turn to look at deer boy. I then notice his creepy mustache. When will guys ever learn that depending on the guy, facial hair looks bad? "I'm sitting down."

"Um, how about no." He didn't phrase it like a question though; he made it sound like an order. And like the good girl I am, I sit anyway, looking at him with a calm and polite expression. His jaw clenches, and I just stare. Not making a sound or move. "Who the—," but he gets interrupted before he can continue.

"Who are you?" I turn to look at Zayn. He's actually looking at me right now. Not shying away this time. Before it might have had something to do with my indecent exposure? But really do we ever know what someone is thinking? I mean not _all_ young adult males can be thinking about sex _all_ the time, right? Please note the complete and utter sarcasm.

"I'm your new personal assistant."

"Simon said it'd be a man," the blond one informs me.

"You're a cross-dresser!?" Rudolph (get it, 'cause of the deer tattoo? Haha, I'm so funny) screeches. And I do mean screeches.

"No, I'm not," I say calm and stoically. _But you look like one._ I don't say this last part out loud. Mostly because I am a lady and we don't start fights. We finish them. But also I would rather not get fired my first day at this brand-new job. Which is going to pay for my brand-new apartment.

The doe keeps on throwing insult after insult at me but I refuse to even acknowledge him. And Zayn speaks up on my behalf. "Louis, stop! Just leave her alone." Louis gives him a weird look. Something that kind of reminded me of, what-are-you-talking-about-this-is-our-plan-we-would-ruin-the-next-assistant-what-are-you-doing? Although it has been some time since I've read someone's face, so a few of those words might be off.

A big man walks into the room and everyone's eyes are immediately on him. There is just something about people in leadership that automatically calls for attention.

"GOOD MORNING BOYS!" He bellows. "I SEE YOU'VE ALREADY MET JANE." Um, is this his only volume?

"Who?" The dude I'm almost 100% positive is Harry questions. That's right; I forgot to tell them my name…

He gestures to me, "THIS FINE YOUNG LADY RIGHT HERE!" Yes, yes it is in fact his only volume. This is probably Paul. I slide my eyes over towards his security badge and see, "Paul Higgins". Well, Paul Higgins. I already don't like you. You're too loud.

I hear a snickering coming from my right, but I refuse to react in anyway. "She's no lady Pauly," the buck of the heard speaks up. Oops, I mean **_Louis_**. What a pretentious name. Like the kind of name to go with a little Pomeranian in some rich lady's purse. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I don't even blink in response to his latest attempt at getting me to blow up.

Paul stops walking around towards his chair and pivots so he is looking at Louis directly. "What did you just say?" Wow. Miraculously this poop-face has made it so that 'Pauly' is no longer yelling. Praise the Lord, Hallelujah. Oh wait. I'm supposed to be offended aren't I? Well it's a good thing I have thick skin. Little things like that don't bother me anymore, I've gotten used to being treated like dirt – trust me anything that _this_ priss could throw my way would not send me crying.

The other four guys all look between Paul and Louis, knowing that Louis had definitely crossed a line just there. Louis actually looks a little guilty once he starts getting railed on. Paul starts yelling about responsibility and ladies and gentlemen and I'm pretty sure he just mentioned something about a taco. "Its fine," someone interrupts.

Everyone stares at me. Oops. I said that. But did I mean it? Yeah, I guess I did. "Really," I look at everyone, except the annoying deer, in turn, "its fine. I promise he didn't hurt my feelings. And I couldn't care less about what he thinks of me. So let's just move on." I suggest.

Paul eventually nods, "LIKE I WAS TRYING TO SAY EARLIER…" _Say? More like spray. When you yell that loud you most definitely spittle_. "THIS IS JANE SMITH. SHE IS YOUR PERSONAL ASSISTANT. PERSONAL ASSISTANTS ARE NOT TOYS. SHE IS NOT TO BE SENT OUT FOR COFFEE RUNS WHENEVER YOU FEEL LIKE IT," he shouts while looking pointedly at Zayn. "SHE IS NOT THERE TO SEXUALLY HARRASS." He warns Louis, who is looking innocently away as if this statement doesn't apply to him at all. "SHE IS NOT A DRINKING BUDDY." He gives the blond boy a hard stare (well this is awkward. I know all of their names except this kid. I should give him a nickname… Ooh, what about Giggles?) And then finally he gave each boy an equally disgusted look, "SHE IS **_NOT_** TO BE PRANKED UNTIL SHE QUITS." I rub my temples, trying to get the headache to magically disappear, but alas it has taken up what seems like permanent residency in my brain. After another couple minutes of his lecturing, Paul finally sits down. All of the boys at least have the conscious to look ashamed at their actions. At least until Paul turned around, and then Louis smirked at me again. And winked. I repeat. He **winked** at me. Oh my gosh. This boy definitely has a death wish. And may I just say I will be happy to deliver it.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to look as if I have no idea what I'm doing, but um, I have no idea what I'm doing. Mr. Cowell didn't give me any instructions on what exactly my job was?" I inform Paul. A few of the guys chuckle at my use of the Mister. As if being respectful of your elders is such a terrible thing. "Also I have a pounding headache, could we talk a bit quieter?"

A little shocked, he starts to explain what it is I would be doing. In a much quieter tone, "You are to keep their calendar for them. So when new events come up, like a signing for example you would inform the boys of when they need to be up and out of their houses – everything should already be in the schedule given to you. You are to keep track of when they eat. We have a personal chef that makes sure that they eat the correct amount of healthy foods so all you have to do is make sure they go eat it. And you need to monitor how much sleep they get – at least 8 hours every day – including naps." My eyes grow slightly larger at the huge task in front of me. No wonder I signed my whole life away, this job would have taken away the whole thing. So it's good that I don't have one, yes? "You are also going to make sure that they met their social quota for the month. So whether that's Twitter or Instagram or if they go sign autographs or take pictures with fans. Or if they are seen with another famous person. This is your job. Do it and we won't have a problem. Don't and well…" He trails off leaving me with my imagination to fill in the rest. _Don't and well… you'll be swimming in a pool full of spaghetti._ No? Oh, okay.

"Should I be taking notes?" I frown, starting to worry.

"No, no. It'll be fine." He slides a binder over towards me, "this is full of checklists that describe each of the situations you will come across. And once you get the hang of it, you won't even need this. It has all the contact information, like the boys' cell phone numbers and all of the boys' team. Their stylists, both hair and clothes, me, Simon, the boys' security guards, everyone; if you need to get ahold of any of us we'll just be a phone call away." I nod. On the outside, I am confident. On the inside, I am nervous. Like so nervous that I could pee my pants right now.

"What are my work hours?" I'm almost afraid of the answer though.

"You are working the whole time the boys are working. Everywhere One Direction goes, you will be there too. So you will carpool with us, sometimes in the same vehicle, sometimes in another one in our caravan. If at least three of the boys are going out as a group you are to go with them, they _will_ inform you of these outings," Paul looks strictly at all of the boys, promising a world of hurt with just his eyes. Man, I need to learn how to do that. "You are to attend every book signing, every meet and greet, every concert. You will be at every interview, whether it's televised or radio. This is so that you can talk with whoever is interviewing the boys, giving them the list of what they can and cannot mention. They will have to sign a contract saying that they or anyone relating to the show won't go against this list. You are to help the boys in anyway that they ask." I can already tell that that will be a huge problem for me; these seem like the type of boys that would request really stupid things just to troll with me.

"You are to coordinate with their hairstylist, Lou Teasdale, about what they should do to their hair that day. You are also to talk with their clothing stylist, Caroline Watson, about what they should be wearing. You are to record everything that goes on in order to give feedback from how well the show went and what they could do next time to improve it. In order to truly give the fans what they want, at least a realistic version of it. We need someone to be monitoring social media for all things One Direction. This also falls under your job description. You are going to be a part every media outlet you can find and get as much information you can find for our management team on what the fans want. That includes reading fanfiction." I swear I gagged. I have heard a lot about fanfiction... None of it good. "Here is your schedule for the next month," he flipped open the binder and pointed at a very complicated looking and full calendar, "it has everywhere and when you need to be. Don't be late."

I frown, "But what does all that have to do with being a personal assistant? I thought personal assistants just fetched coffee and held things for people?"

Paul stares at me as if I'm a platypus incapable of doing anything he's just laid before me, "How did you get this job without knowing what an executive personal assistant is?"

I shrug, "I sent in my resume and then got an email saying that I had a meeting with Simon Cowell at the London office of Syco Records." A boisterous laugh exploded from him. And he just continued to laugh. For a good two minutes at least. It was a little obnoxious. Like what are the rest of us supposed to do? Not join in for sure.

"This is going to be quite interesting," he promised with a scary knowing grin.

"So, just a quick summary: I am One Direction's mom." I give a brief (brief being the operative word) over-view of my job description, once I got over Paul's creepy promise. They all look at me as if _I'm_ the idiot. "You know…" Nobody reacted as if they did know so I explain, "I feed them, I dress them, and I do their hair. Well I don't personally do all that but I make sure it gets done. I keep a close eye on their internet usage and who is cyber-bullying them. I also make sure everyone knows just how much I love One Direction." After thinking about it for a moment I continue, "I recant my previous statement. I am not One Direction's mom. I am their grandmother." A few moments pass of complete silence and then a loud and infectious laugh erupts from Giggles. I smile sweetly at him. Its official, this one is my favorite. He laughed when I made a funny. The rest of the room fell into light chuckles too, all except Louis. He's a stubborn moose. Er, I mean deer.

* * *

**So what did you think? Please review so what you like/don't like about the story! **

**Thank you so much for taking**** your precious time**** out of your day to read this :)**

**Have a fantabulous day!**


	3. The Goodish Life

**Disclaimer: I only own my OC's. Everyone else (with names) are all legit people that I sadly do not own...**

**This is my third chapter to this story. I'm sorry it took so long for anyone who was waiting for it! I was having a hard time getting the words to flow right.**

**Enjoy!**

Paul let me go home after we had our little chitchat. Something about he didn't want me to be a witness in a murder? So now I'm on my way to IKEA. I'd stopped by my apartment and made a legit list, on paper, of what I needed. Like dishes, and laundry detergent. Also toilet paper and cooking pans and bedding.

A very wealthy member of my family passed not 6 months ago. He left me quite a chunk of change in a Swiss Bank account that only I can access. I promised myself I would not touch it. I didn't really think that taking the money would be the best idea. I mean. It's in a Swiss Bank. As in the kind where like bad people put their money away so the governments can't touch it. But seeing as I don't have any money right now it'll have to hold me over until Syco starts paying me. Speaking of which, I forgot to ask how much I'd get paid. It'd better be a lot if I'm to deal with those villains. Although, in retrospect most of the boys didn't seem that bad. It's mainly just the stag. I can tell, even though I only just met him an hour ago, that we _won't_ be fast friends.

Paying my cab driver (note to self: buy car), I get out and head into the maze of weird unpronounceable stuff from Switzerland and Holland.

And I get lost.

No seriously I'm lost. I've been in here an hour, I've collected over 100 things to bring home and I'm really lost. They have that one like scan thing that brides-to-be use when registering at like Walmart or Bed Bath & Beyond, right? So I walked around the building scanning everything I needed. Like shelves. I need a shelf or two. And rugs. That'd be good. But now I can't find my way out. I'd be walking around looking for the exit, and then I'd get distracted by something cute that I just had to have. Like that couch I need that couch.

So after I accumulated a ridiculous amount of stuff I finally spot an employee in this vast jungle and they walk me back to the civilization and send me to the check out. The dude who checks me out raises an eyebrow at how much I bought, "Are you a personal shopper or something, love?"

I smirk, "No. But I just moved here today and need to furnish and fill my apartment."

He smiles, kindly, "Ah… American?"

"For now, I'm thinking that once I've lived here long enough I'm going to apply for citizenship," I explain my grand scheme. He raises both eyebrows, and I demand with a smile, "What?"

"Nothing." But I don't just let it go, I continue to stare at him expectantly, "It's nothing. I'm Stan," He reaches out to shake my hand, "if you have any issues with anything go ahead and call this number. You'll be connected to me and I can fix it." He does that half smile non-smirk thing that all guys do and is super cute.

Unimpressed at his topic change I agree to call if there's a problem. He says something about home delivery so I write down my address and walk way, somewhat in a daze by his beauty. And then it finally occurs to me. He was trying to flirt with me. I almost stumble when walking . And then I giggle. These British boys were going to be the death of me.

Four hours later, I am finally back at my apartment putting stuff away. Yes, I know. That's an abhorrent amount of time to be out shopping. But I needed to buy a car, and then clothes and towels and shoes. I needed to eat lunch, and then I needed to buy shampoo, cute paintings to put on my walls, and groceries.

Hello, my name is Jane and I am a shopaholic.

I hear a knock on my door at 4:30 when I am in the middle of starting a load of laundry. I finish and yell, "Coming!" Before I reach for the door handle, though, I look through the little peephole, checking it's not an axe murderer. There's three guys there holding huge brown boxes varying in size and shape, so not a person looking to kill me. I unlock and open the door and then I have a scary thought, _but if it _**was**_ an axe murderer wouldn't they of hid the axe behind their back? It wouldn't matter if I looked through the peephole. Oops._ IKEA is written on their shirts and in huge letters on the boxes.

"You Miss Smith?" The one in front grunts out.

"Yeah, come on in." I open the door wide so they can get through. Looking at the first box, I see that it's my dining room table. "Go ahead and put this one over there," I gesture towards the kitchen/dining room area. The next box is my new bed frame. "Follow me," I tell the huge mass of a "man" holding it and lead him into my room, "If you could just set this here that'd be great." We then go back out to my front door and I see the third guy is holding something that looks an awful lot like my coffee table. I point to the area I want my TV to go, "That can go there." Then they leave to go get more. And after almost half an hour everything is moved in. But still in boxes. This is going to be a fun adventure. Not.

The guys start going towards some boxes and opening them… "Um, what are you doing?"

"You paid for the delivery and move in option, didn't you?" I think about this for a moment… Did I? I think I was too busy staring at Stan's face to really pay attention to what he was saying. "That's what we have written down…"

"Oh y-yeah, I did. I had jus-just forgotten." I stutter, embarrassed at my stupidity. Chuckling, they continue their duties. Teehee. _Duties_.

They're probably thinking that I'm some idiot American. You know, I'm pretty sure that it's the unwritten law for people in the UK to hate Americans.

_I watch it all like a horror movie. A girl is running. Trying to get away from… Something. Or someone. I'm in her body. But… _Not.

_Running, but not doing a very good job. She's limping. It seems like she's really hurt. She turns around a corner trying to lose whatever is chasing her. She looks down at her hands – they're stained with blood. So is her shirt. And something keeps dripping into her eyes making it hard to see._

_She/I can hear the pounding footfalls behind us, and that just makes her run faster._

_There is no one anywhere. Everywhere she steps, the street is empty. Of course, why would they be awake? _Even if they were awake, they wouldn't help you. You've dug yourself into this hole… _Her thoughts echo into the night, my heart bleeds for her._

_She shakes her head and her mind screams out, _SHUT **UP **ME! _**RUN**_!

Running… I'm always running.

_She can't breathe right. Tears are running down her face making it even harder to see. And then something happens._

_Everything looks to be slowing down around us… No, that's her. _She's_ slowing down. Why is she slowing down? She can't slow down! She has to move! We're going to get caught, __**RUN**__!_

_Her/our legs are moving like molasses now._

_The devil's chuckle echoes throughout the street. Bouncing off the buildings and hitting my ears, and the girl freezes. She stops moving. She's given up._

_An arm wraps around our neck cutting off our air supply. A sharp pain slices into our back—_

My eyes fly open and I lay on my couch breathing heavily for a few moments. Slowly sitting up, I take in my surroundings.

I'm home, in my apartment, on my couch. There's no bad guy. Everything is fine. Looking over at the clock on my stove, I groan. 3:16 A.M.

Taking a deep breath I hoist myself up and go grab a pudding cup, a small bowl of BBQ Lays and a nice cup of mint tea. There was no way I was going back to sleep anytime soon so I also grab my laptop and start doing my homework on One Direction. It might be nice to know more about them before I go back to work tomor—I mean today. We're going to a talk show, the really funny one – Chatty Man. I set an alarm on my phone for 5:45 A.M. so I wouldn't get carried away with my 'research'.

I watch video after video of them doing the stupidest stuff. Little dance moves, or little skits that truly just don't make sense. I end up giggling a lot at Louis' bits, but then I remember that I don't like him. He's rude and… Rude.

Isn't it sad that that is the only thing I can think is wrong with him?

Oh! Wait, he's a big child too! There that's two things…

[PAGE BREAK]

I've always had so much respect for the people behind the curtain. And I don't mean The Wizard of Oz. That's not real life. I mean the cameramen or the dudes who hold the boom mics, the personal assistants. The people who fetch coffee, and make everything run perfectly.

On this show it was the people behind the scenes that made the show. They may not be in front of the camera bringing in views but somehow they just had this way about them that made everything flow. And they were funny. So you know that didn't hurt.

It was as I was meeting these lovely people that my morning turned for the worse.

"Ahem!" I don't turn around. This is definitely not the way to get someone's attention. Let me tell you, if you want something? You need to be polite. If you walk up behind me and clear your throat right behind me and directly into my ear, I will not comply.

"As I was saying, it's not a hard job. There's nothing too taxing about it, you just have to be silent when laughing and be attentive. You can't slack off, or miss your cues." I nod in understanding of his description.

Oh right. I forgot to mention, Stan works here too. I've got to admit, it's a little weird but as Stan said there must be a reason that we're running into each other like this. I think he was trying to imply fate. It turns out that he has multiple part-time jobs. "Anything to pay the bills."

"You know," a very annoying voice sneers its way into my ear, "if I wanted to watch two people flirt, I'd go watch a flippin' RomCom! You're here for us, Smith, not to get a new shagging buddy."

Slowly I turn around, "Whatever can I do for you Mr. Tomlinson?" I ask in my sweetest voice, because really what else is there to do in this situation?

"Get me a coffee." That's it. No please, no thank you, no size, no flavor, nothing.

"I thought British people drank tea, not coffee?" I voice my confusion. He just glares at me, which I might just add is really rude. I slowly nod and make my way over to the refreshment table to grab him a coffee. Seriously, he can't get it himself?

"Noooo…" He drags out the word and I spin to look at him. "I want you to go to Starbucks and get me a Venti 1 pump caramel, 1 pump white mocha, 2 scoops vanilla bean powder, extra ice frappuccino with 2 shots poured over the top (apagotto style) with caramel drizzle under and on top of the whipped cream, double cupped." I gape at him for a good whole minute.

"Could you like write that down for me? Or text it to me? Or anything really, 'cause I won't be able to remember all that!"

Louis sighs and texts me the order and then glares at me again. I give him an expectant face, waiting for what I'm sure will be some kind of threat or something. "Try not to take too long, yeah? I'm really tired and need the caffeine."

I lift my right hand in a mock salute, "Yes, sir!"

And that's how I ended up in the longest line I've ever seen at a Starbucks, ever. Asking for the most ridiculous order I've ever heard of.

**So what did you think? Please review about what you like/don't like about the story! It'd really help with how to later shape the story line.**

**Thank you so so so much for taking****your precious time****out of your day to read this :)**

**Have a great day!**


End file.
